


Arcana

by ScarletRaven1001



Category: Todomomo - Fandom, 僕のヒーローアカデミア | Boku no Hero Academia | My Hero Academia
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Mythology, Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst, Drama, Dreams vs. Reality, Eventual Romance, F/M, Fantasy, Inspired by Mythology, Past Lives, Reincarnation, Romance, Romantic Soulmates, Soulmates
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-10
Updated: 2020-05-14
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:49:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23577184
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScarletRaven1001/pseuds/ScarletRaven1001
Summary: Todoroki Shouto is being plagued by vivid dreams of a woman whose name and face elude him. Desperate to know what she looks like, he uses his art to piece together the small bits and pieces that he could see of her in each dream. As he inexplicably falls deeper and deeper in love with her, he realizes that the woman was no mere illusion, and he needs to find her before their broken distant pasts destroy them both forever.A TodoMomo romance/soulmate AU.Loosely inspired by the myth of Pygmalion and Galatea.
Relationships: Todoroki Shouto & Yaoyorozu Momo, Todoroki Shouto/Yaoyorozu Momo
Comments: 14
Kudos: 87
Collections: TodoMomo Collection





	1. His Dreams

**Author's Note:**

> Hello everyone!  
> This is my very first fanfic in the BNHA / Todomomo fandom and I am so nervous I could scream, lol! I hope you enjoy my humble little fic.  
> If you have the time, I would appreciate your thoughts and comments on this story!
> 
> PS: Special thanks to Bitchytimemachine for your beta and support, as always!

The dreams always began in the same way.

The same landscape: a lush field of green, dotted with thousands of lively red blossoms, the blue sky softened by perfectly rounded clouds that framed a cheerful golden sun.

The same scents: the pristine smell of fresh grass, mixing with the perfume of springtime flowers, with the calming whiff of clear skies after a merry rain.

And in all of those dreams… was her.

She was always turned away… all he could see was the graceful curve of her back, the slope of her pale nape. Her obsidian hair flowed about her like a dark waterfall, the thick strands flying gently in the subtle winds.

He would always, always beg her to turn around.

He needed to see her face.

He _needed_ to know!

He would call out, desperately trying to reach her, a name he could not hear spilling desperately from his parched throat.

The corners of her red lips would slowly come into his view as she began to face him, a corner lifted in invitation as she heeded his call.

Yet, the dreams always ended before she could turn to him, as he strained with all his might to grasp her, the tips of his fingers always failing to brush against the smooth pale skin of her arm.

And he would wake up…

Her name would be buried within the deepest vestiges of his consciousness, but try as he might, he could never remember it upon waking.

All he could remember was her back… Her beautiful black hair, and the curve of the side of her lip, a curve that told him that she was smiling at him… for him.

He could never remember anything else.

Cold sweat raced down his right temple while a feverish heat engulfed the other half of his head, pulsing mercilessly across the large, thick scar that marred the skin around his left eye.

Todoroki Shouto should be used to waking up like this, by now.

But the truth was, the frustration of not seeing the woman’s face, the sheer agony that he felt as he failed to touch her, never really became any less difficult to deal with.

He could do nothing but sigh in resignation, before flinging his blankets off, knowing that sleep would no longer come for him that night.

His heavy feet brought him to his small bathroom, his fingers casting about for the light switch as he approached the sink. He turned the cold water on, splashing his face repeatedly to sooth the pounding headache that consumed him.

When he was done, he looked up, staring at his reflection in the small mirror before him.

His eyes were edged with dark bags, deep and sullen. His turquoise eye peeked at him from the center of his scar, while his gray right eye shone suspiciously brightly upon his pale skin.

His hair was in a comical disarray, with the thick red strands of his left sticking up like thorns amongst the softer white ones on his right. He ran his hands through his head, parting his hair down the middle so that the strands would stay where they were all supposed to.

Shouto had always thought of himself as odd-looking, and the biggest reason was the strange dual coloring of his hair and eyes. He always thought that he looked like he was two different people haphazardly fused into one – an unfortunate chimera whose body was always either too hot or too cold, his right hand perpetually clammy while his left always felt warm to the touch.

He shook his head, a wry smirk breaking onto his lips at his self-deprecating thoughts. He really ought to stop it with the self-bashing. His friends always told him he looked fine – heck, one of his female co-workers outright told him he was hot, but he deeply believed she was joking – but he just couldn’t help it.

He sighed heavily, taking off his shirt that was half-soaked in sweat, and throwing it into the hamper. His boxers followed, and he stepped into his shower, figuring he might as well clean himself and start his day early.

He worked a well-paying office job that took up most of his time, so most of his free time, especially whenever he woke up too early, was usually reserved for his favorite hobby – art.

His art was something that he had wanted to pursue when he was young, but the ultimatum from his asshole absentee father had been clear: take what he deemed was a “meaningful” university major, because to _him_ , art was a means to pass the time, not something Shouto could make a living out of. He vehemently disagreed, but he knew that the man would disown him if he didn’t do exactly as he had been told. He would have willingly let himself be cast out, if not for his mother begging him to comply. If there was one thing that fueled him more than his disdain for his father, it was the love and respect that he would always have for his mother. 

He sighed, turning off the water. He was already in a shitty mood. There was absolutely no sense in thinking of things that could make it worse.

He dressed up before he headed into his apartment’s secondary bedroom, the one that he used as his makeshift art studio. He had a drawing desk with his paints and sketchbooks, and a separate a corner with his clay and sculpting materials; and for perhaps the hundredth time that day, he heaved another sigh as he looked around his makeshift art sanctuary.

His drawing desk was not quite large, but it was enough for him to freely sketch and store his paints. Normally fairly meticulous, his art studio was the only place in his house that was not kept in near draconian levels of cleanliness. His pencils were sorted but not kept evenly stacked, his paints arranged according to type but not all were stored in their boxes. The table itself was marred with little splotches of paint that he had given up on removing, their marbled colors muddled like the innocent wishes that he had lost and the happiness that he was wary that he would never truly achieve.

The dreams of his youth were concealed behind the four corners of this room. After a few hours, he would need to leave it all behind again to face another day in his reality.

He headed for his paints, running a finger through them before he sat down to open his sketchbook to another blank page. He picked up a pencil, and began to mindlessly sketch.

He had no idea what to draw, really, letting his mind wander aimlessly while his pencil scratched lines upon the sheet. It was a strange sensation, staring blindly as his drawing began to take shape, as if his hand knew what to do while the rest of him did not. This was new to him, but Shouto, somehow tired and drained, just went with the flow, blanking his mind as he kept drawing.

When his alarm began to blare loudly from his bedroom, he jumped, almost as if startled awake from a deep sleep. He had woken up long before his alarm went off after all, and this just meant it was time for him to get ready for work. He shook his head to clear it, before looking down at what he had drawn.

He felt the blood drain from his face as he stared.

It was unmistakable.

The graceful curves of a woman’s back, her long dark hair flowing gently with the soft breeze. She was standing in a clearing of flowers, amidst a clear sky with puffy, round clouds.

He picked up the sketchbook that he had been using, pulling up the cover, and he closed it before gently laying it back on the table.

It wouldn’t do to dwell on things he could not understand, and dreams that he could never see to their end.

8-8-8-8-8

“Todoroki. Hey, Todoroki!”

Shouto blinked, turning away from his computer screen that he had just realized was already running the screen saver. He looked up, his eyes meeting a pair of large green ones, set on a round, freckled face that seemingly looked too young to be working in corporate.

“Did you need something, Midoriya?” he asked.

His old classmate and now co-worker, Midoriya Izuku, just stared back at him in concern. “Are you alright? You’ve been a bit out of it all morning.”

He shrugged. “I didn’t sleep well last night. But I’m fine, thank you.”

“If you’re sure,” Midoriya said, looking highly doubtful. “We’re going out to lunch. Iida wants to try that new ramen place that just opened. You feeling up to it?”

Shouto nodded, getting up from his chair and putting down the pen that he held in his right hand. He began to arrange his things back into his drawers, when something on his desk caught his eye.

He gasped loudly, making Midoriya turn to him in concern.

“Todoroki?” the other man called in clear concern, leaning over to see what had caught his attention.

His office notepad laid open on his desk, and drawn upon it, was a sketch that he had unconsciously made as he had stared numbly at his computer screen.

It was the woman, again. The same woman from his dreams. The woman whose back was always turned to him, unreachable in dreams and impossible in reality.

“Whoa, that’s pretty good,” Midoriya remarked, startling Shouto.

He quickly tuned the notepad over, feeling a heated flush flow over his cheeks. “Thanks.”

He shifted uneasily as he reached into his pockets, checking for his keys and wallet. “Shall we go out to eat?”

Midoriya just grinned, leading the way.

8-8-8-8-8

The dreams always began in the same way.

Shouto once again found himself running, his fingers reaching out, needing to touch the elusive woman who haunted his dreams.

She was standing in the middle of the field again, back turned to him, dressed in a short red dress with a skirt that softly brushed against her thighs.

He was screaming, the same short word wrenched out of his lips over and over. The rustling of the wind blew loudly in his ears as he ran, but he was deaf to himself, unable to hear what he was saying.

A strange pounding in his ears told him that he was calling out her name.

A stronger pounding in his chest urged him, pled with him, to reach her.

The dreams always began in the same way…

And yet, this time, something was _different_.

Because as he reached forward, expecting his fingers to close around nothing but air as always…

The woman moved towards him, and his desperate fingers finally wrapped around her arm, her warm skin feeling like blessed spring upon the freezing grasp of his right hand.

Shouto gasped, his dual colored eyes looking up…

Her lips were curved into the most beautiful smile, a perfect bow of rosy red inviting him, and he bathed in the glorious light that seemed to shine from it.

His eyes darted up, needing to see her face, but a gust of strong wind wrapped around them then, her wild dark hair blowing into her face and concealing her eyes.

He screamed again, tightening his grasp on her, his entire being _begging_ her to stay with him…

The sweat dripped down his temple as he opened his eyes, the darkness of his room shocking him as he looked around in confusion.

He had woken up…

Yet, wakefulness did not erase the woman’s smile from his mind’s eye, her warmth making the skin of his palm tingle deliciously. He felt heavy with dread but alight with fire all at once, and he clasped his hand against his face, trying to stem the pounding around his left eye.

He moved slowly, bracing his arms behind him as he sluggishly attempted to get up, and when he somehow finally made it to his feet, he trudged forward to go to the bathroom.

As he passed the doorway leading into his art room though, a peculiar, powerful urge gripped him, and he turned, reaching out for the knob.

He opened the door, staring blankly out at his various art supplies, and without thinking, he found himself running to his drawing table, wrenching his sketchbook open while reaching for a pencil.

He began sketching before he could even sit down, eager to draw before the images had the chance to disappear from his mind.

Shouto would not, _could_ not, allow himself to forget the woman’s smile.

With fierce determination, he drew for hours, ignoring the alarm clock as it blared in the other room, determined to finish – to _perfect_ – his sketch, and bring as much life as he could to the woman who has been the center of his dreams for so long…

And when he was done, staring with lingering discontent at the image that he _knew_ didn’t quite capture the beauty of her smile, he swore with determination that he would know what she truly looked like, and perhaps, somehow –

He swallowed hard as he stared at the image of her lips, his heart lost in the memory of his dream...

Somehow… he **_will_** find out who she was.

8-8-8-8-8

**Arcana** – _noun_ : secrets or mysteries; often used in reference to the mysteries of the physical and spiritual worlds; a secret essence or remedy.

8-8-8-8-8

_To be continued…_


	2. Her Voice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At the end of a very peculiar day, Shouto finds himself trapped in a strange new dream with the same woman. But now, the sound of her voice echoes in his ears, and he realizes just how much he truly needs to find out more about her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone!  
> First of all, I would like to thank everyone who dropped by to read, comment and kudos on this fic. It really means a lot to me that you gave this story a chance!  
> Secondly, sorry about the delayed update. This chapter had been mostly finished for a while, but I constantly second guess myself about everything in my life, lol! So today, I just decided to post it! Unbeta'd since I want to be as brave as Todoroki. :D  
> I've gotten some good footing on the whole plot of this fic now so my updates will begin to be more regular starting today.  
> I hope you like it, and should you have time, please let me know what you think!

The trains seem to move a lot slower, when one is running late.

Shouto glanced at his watch in irritation, begrudging each stopover, barely keeping in his huffs of irritation as people took forever to move around the train carriage.

He had never, ever, been late before. He knew he had no one but himself to blame, swept away as he had been by his obsession for perfecting the drawing. Yet, something in his gut told him that the drawing was important, far more important than him keeping his flawless attendance record. It had made sense at the time, but now his not-so-inner perfectionist was screaming at him as he watched the minute hand on his wrist watch go past exactly 8:00 in the morning, and he was still nowhere near his office.

Fifteen excruciating minutes later, he finally leaves the train station, breaking into a sprint in a desperate attempt to get to work as early as possible. He was already tardy, but there was no way he was going to slow down and make himself even later, not if he could help it.

He heaved a sigh of relief as he finally made it to work, lifting a hand up to register his arrival into the thumb-scan attendance machine. But alas, luck was not on Shouto’s side today, as who else would see him coming in late, but his boss, Aizawa Shota.

Aizawa was a stern and silent man who always appeared to have woken up on the wrong side of the bed. At first glance, he was completely unremarkable, if not a little disheveled. However, Shouto knew that behind the unshaved stubble and messy, shoulder length black hair, Aizawa was a frightfully competent man, who was not only his work manager, but his mentor.

Aizawa had taught part-time at the university from where Shouto, Midoriya and Iida had studied in a few years ago. He had taken a liking to the three of them, though one could not have known that at the time. He had always drilled them and Bakugo Katsuki, another one of their classmates, harder than the rest of the class.

Thus, when Aizawa’s disapproving glare met Shouto’s, he gulped, a remnant of a student’s fear of his teacher resurfacing along with the slight “uh-oh” that his brain helpfully supplied at being an adult professional caught in a misdemeanor by his boss.

“Good morning, Aizawa-sensei,” Shouto croaked, wincing at how he had even used _sensei_ again instead of _san._

Aizawa shook his head, before pinning Shouto with a harsh stare.

“My office,” he hissed. “Now.”

Shouto sighed, sullenly following Aizawa through the halls until they made it into his office, a spacious room tucked away into a quiet corner of their floor.

“Sit,” Aizawa said, and Shouto promptly found himself plopping down onto the nearest chair, facing his boss as the older man went around his large desk to reach his own seat.

Aizawa sighed heavily, a hand going up to massage lightly at the center of his forehead as if willing away the beginnings of a headache. Shouto sat silently observing his teacher, absently noting that Aizawa looked even more… haggard, than usual.

His hair, typically a wavy disarray, now fell flat and downright messily around his face. His dark eyes were deep and sullen, ringed with grayish eye bags, the whites nearly overtaken with angry red veins. His usual black dress shirt and slacks were wrinkled, and his hands, if Shouto was not mistaken, were shaking almost imperceptibly. 

“Todoroki,” Aizawa began, “what is happening to you?”

“ _I could ask you the same thing,”_ Shouto thought, but decided to answer Aizawa’s question, instead.

“I’m sorry, Aizawa-san,” he said, reverting to the proper honorific. “I slept through my alarm, so I had been running late. I have no excuses, it was entirely my mistake.”

“I’m not talking about that,” Aizawa said. “Today is just another thing that makes me wonder what has been wrong with you lately.”

Shouto felt his mouth open and close, unable to articulate his confusion at this comment, while Aizawa frowned deeply at him.

“You have been very distracted recently,” Aizawa clarified. “I noticed it in your output. Your work is generally excellent, Todoroki, but for the past few weeks, your reports have been lackluster. Like you’re not even really trying.”

Shouto winced. He hadn’t realized that his performance was falling, and that it had apparently been declining for _weeks_ …

“I need to know what has you in such a state, and if it is work-related, we need to find a way to fix it,” Aizawa said. Then, with a smirk, he added, “I can’t have one of my best employees sleeping on the job – metaphorically, of course.”

Shouto chuckled at that, knowing full well that his old teacher was riffing on his own propensity for napping in between his teaching classes. Aizawa had been infamous for it, so much that Bakugo had given him a big yellow sleeping bag as a gag gift at their end of term party.

“Joking aside,” Aizawa said, “You had always been one of my best students, Todoroki. This is why I recruited you, Midoriya and Iida straight out of university. So, if anything is bothering you, let me know.”

To say that Shouto was surprised by the offer from Aizawa would be an understatement. Granted, the man had always been uncannily in tune with him and his friends, but this blatant display of concern, of _worry_ , was definitely not the norm.

But he doesn’t speak of these oddities, leaving it at a simple nod. “I’m fine. Thank you. Aizawa-san.”

Aizawa turns away from him then, a sign of dismissal, and Shouto stands up to leave. However, as he closes the door to the office, he did not miss the small frown on his mentor’s face as he glances at him once more, and his hands reaching hurriedly for his phone.

8-8-8-8-8

Trying to concentrate was a moot point, Shouto decided, as he promptly forgets – for perhaps the sixth time that day – what he had been about to type into his proposal.

His conversation with Aizawa was weighing heavily on his mind, second only to the stack of sketches that he knew were waiting for him once he got home. The sketches of the woman’s lips and long flowing hair, the central figure in his dreams that have been recurring with more and more frequency in the past few weeks.

He knew that the dreams were nothing new, as he had vague recollections of strange, blurry images from his youth. He had been having such dreams for a long time… For exactly how long, he didn’t know, as most of his childhood memories were a mystery to him, phantom images of people and dizzying motions that remained shrouded in thick, dark fog. He knew that something dreadful had happened when he was a child, something so painfully traumatic that his young mind had shut down, forcibly repressing most of his memories from before –

From before… _the incident_.

His left hand reached up beneath his bangs, hesitantly feeling around the edge of the large scar that covered almost a quarter of his face. The incident had given him this scar and caused irreparable damage to his life, but he had no idea what had happened, and truthfully, he was afraid to try harder to remember.

It was something that broke him, destroyed his family. His mother would never speak of it, and Shouto knew that if he wanted answers, the only one who could give them was his father.

His father, Todoroki Enji: The inconsiderate bastard who _left_ their family after the incident. Shouto resented him for his cowardice, for his lack of strength to stay with his family and deal with the devastating loss that they had been dealt. He remembered little about his father from before the incident, but Shouto felt that what he knew about his father from after it was more, much more, than he needed to.

Some quick but heavy footsteps approaching him pulled him out of his usual dreary thoughts, and he looked up, expecting the large green eyes and messy dark green hair of his friend and colleague, Midoriya Izuku. Predictably, Midoriya stood there before him, beaming brightly, his large freckles prominent on his rounded cheeks.

“I am calling for a men’s night out,” Midoriya declared. “Tomorrow is a weekend so you can’t bail, Todoroki! I won’t allow it!”

Shouto smirked, one red brow raising as he asked, “Do I really bail that much, Midoriya?”

“Just about every other week,” a new voice called, and Shouto looked beyond his green-haired friend’s shoulders to find a much taller man walking towards his desk to join the conversation.

Iida Tenya stopped right beside Midoriya, arms crossed, glasses near sparkling as he looked through his dark bangs to glare jokingly at Shouto. “You’ve been ditching us, man. I thought we were tight.”

This made Shouto laugh softly, a smirk etching across his face as he looked at his friends. “We’ve been ‘tight’ since the Kamino incident, whether we like it or not.”

Midoriya laughed fondly at the memory. “Nothing like rescuing Kacchan from accidental alcohol poisoning, to forge a strong friendship among men, huh?”

“Bakugo still denies being friends with us, and he still hates us for helping him out that night,” Shouto said, recognizing Midoriya’s nickname for their fiery friend. “Did he really expect us to just leave him there with that odd group of people?”

“Speaking of Bakugo,” Iida asked, turning to the shorter man beside him. “Is he coming? You said you would invite him.”

“I did, but he hasn’t replied yet,” Midoriya answered, a small frown, almost a pout, twisting his lips. “He’s been ditching us even more than Todoroki.”

“Why are you even trying? He never comes to meet with us,” Shouto asked, puzzled.

“I know, but… you never know, maybe one of these days he will?” Midoriya said, a small pout marring his face.

Both Shouto and Iida just stared at Midoriya with identical looks – one brow raised – entirely unconvinced.

8-8-8-8-8

The bar was not quite as full as they had expected, and Shouto sat between his friends, nursing his second bottle of beer when he felt a shiver run through his spine. He placed his drink down, discreetly rubbing at his left arm to warm it up. The small action, however, did not go unnoticed by Midoriya.

“Todoroki?” he asked, a brow raised in concern. “Are you feeling cold?”

He started to shake his head no, before he paused, and nodded honestly instead.

Iida turned to him, a small frown creasing his brow. “Is your left side doing that strange thing again?”

They have been friends long enough for the two other men to know that there was a definite discrepancy between the two halves of Shouto’s body. It was something that had been apparent during days when weathers were at extremes, and though he had tried to hide it at first, four years together in university eventually yielded to little secrets among the three.

The left side of Shouto thrived in hot weather, but was sensitive to the cold. His right side was the opposite, sweating even in the lightest summer heat.

It was a source of concern and unwitting entertainment for all of them. Shouto distinctly remembered that the loudest Iida had ever laughed in front of him was when he had found him, huddled in a corner during the winter, his left side covered by a thick blanket while his right hand held a half-eaten popsicle.

Midoriya broke through Shouto’s thoughts with a thoughtful hum. “It’s not even cold. Have you had too much beer?”

He shook his head. “I just feel rather… imbalanced, I suppose.”

“Well, just when _aren’t_ you imbalanced, hah, Icy-Hot?” a loud, gravelly voice intruded from behind the trio.

They all turned sharply, and Shouto clearly saw the wide smile take over Midoriya’s face as he greeted the newcomer.

“Kacchan! You made it!” Midoriya nearly yelled, making Shouto wince from his seat beside him.

“Yeah, yeah. You wouldn’t stop blowing up my fucking phone, and I needed a drink anyway,” Bakugo replied, taking a seat on Midoriya’s other side, an open bottle of beer already held in his right hand.

“We haven’t seen you in months, Bakugo!” Iida enthused, a hand waving around in a chopping motion as his excitement got the best of him.

“It’s good to see you again,” Shouto said, not even offended when all they got in return from Bakugo was a derisive snort.

It really was good to see him again, and while Midoriya wildly gesticulated as he relayed everything that Bakugo had missed in his absence, Shouto took a longer look at their blond friend, silently noticing that something had… changed.

He still had a filthy mouth, made ever apparent as he lashed out about something that Iida had said. But his gestures were more… controlled, Shouto realized, noting the way that Bakugo slammed his beer down onto their table without cracking it like he had done many, many times before.

He couldn’t help but find his gaze drawn to Bakugo’s hands, observing the thick callouses on his fingers and the jagged marks across his fist. He had also spent years studying and hanging around the loud and overbearing man, and Shouto could have sworn that Bakugo did not look nearly as rugged or _scarred_ when they finished school.

“ _What has he been up to?_ ” he wondered silently, knowing better than to ask out loud. He had not been fully in touch with Bakugo since they graduated, but he did know that he worked independently on a job in another city, his employer one that none of the three others of their group knew a single thing about.

“Oi, Icy-Hot,” Bakugo called, pulling Shouto out of his thoughts before he blinked questioningly up at his friend.

Bakugo was scowling, as always, but Shouto could have sworn that he saw hints of curiosity and, dare he assume, a thickly veiled layer of concern in his red irises.

“What the fuck is up with you? You’re even creepier than normal,” Bakugo sneered.

“Kacchan!” Midoriya scolded. “He’s not feeling well!”

Midoriya then turned to Shouto, brows now furrowed low in rising concern. “Do you need to go home, Todoroki? I’m sorry, if I had known you were sick, I wouldn’t have dragged you along – ”

“I’m fine,” he said, shaking his head slowly. “I told you, I’m just feeling a bit imbalanced. My two sides have been acting up a lot recently – ”

“How long?” Bakugo asked, his voice harsh… urgent.

His reaction unnerved Todoroki, especially when he noticed that he had suddenly gone deathly still, red eyes flashing as he stared directly into his own mismatched eyes.

“How long, Todoroki?” he asked again, his words and the unreadable new edge his voice making Shouto straighten in his seat, a shocked frown sliding onto his lips as he looked at his friend.

Bakugo never, ever called him by his name…

Both Iida and Midoriya also froze, staring in alarm at Bakugo. Shouto was confused, but the dire intensity he could see in Bakugo’s eyes made him speak, the answer to his question spilling from his lips against his better judgment.

“I’ve been having strange dreams… for the past few weeks,” he answered, staring back just as intently at Bakugo as he spoke. “I haven’t been getting much sleep, so I get these slight shivers and hot flashes every now and then… But it is really nothing to be concerned about.”

Bakugo silently glared back at him for a few more seconds, and Shouto was just about to demand what the hell was up with him when he scoffed, turning back to his beer. He sat facing away from them, wordlessly sipping his drink as he seemingly withdrew into his own mind, a look of terrifyingly intent concentration darkening his face.

Shouto, Midoriya and Iida glanced at each other in confusion, and Iida opened his mouth to speak, but Bakugo beat him to it with a simple response that further stunned them all even more.

They had expected him to scoff, or yell out something along the lines of ‘ _I don’t care_ ’ like he always did, but instead, he said…

“Be careful, Todoroki.”

8-8-8-8-8

Shouto silently stepped into his art studio, sighing heavily as he stares at the drawing pad that he had left on his desk. His day had been… eventful, to say the least, and as he made his way home, his thoughts had gone further and further away from the surprisingly pleasant evening he had spent with his friends, and down the dark and mysterious path of the drawings that he knew awaited him at home.

All throughout the day, those drawings had been at the back of his mind, the smiling lips of the woman in his dreams flashing silently in his periphery while he struggled to go about his life as normally as possible. He would have hated it, loathed the distraction and loss of concentration that the images brought him, but he could not bring himself to curse the visions when all he wanted was to see the woman and to know who she was, why she was coming to his murky subconscious while he slept at night.

Glancing at his watch, he released another heavy sigh, turning away from his studio and closing the door to prepare for bed… Half-hoping and half-dreading the dreams that he knew would rob him of rest once again.

8-8-8-8-8

The trees that surrounded him were thick, the branches heavy with leaves, scratching slightly at his cheeks as he made his way through. It was a dark night, the moon the only light to go by as it shone half-heartedly amidst the starless sky.

He raised a hand to sweep away some leaves that obscured his path, and as his hand fell away, he noticed with faint surprise that his arm was covered in thick, scratchy clothing. The sleeves were not quite long, and the way the material looked made it seem like it was woven through obsolete methods.

When his other hand lifted to push back another set of meddling foliage, Shouto took another, cursory glance, feeling confusion flow through him as he finally understood that he was wearing some sort of traditional Japanese clothing. A dōbuku, perhaps, judging from the wide sleeves and the way it hung loosely around his shoulders.

He would have wondered more about his strange state of dress, had he not suddenly realized something far more alarming: he was walking forward without his own conscious thought, as if his body was being controlled by someone else’s mind and he was nothing but a mere spectator, observing through eyes that peeked behind thick, white bangs.

The absence of the unruly red hair on the left part of his vision startled him, but his heart beat a calm staccato, the body he was in clearly unaffected by his increasingly panicked thoughts.

It was another dream, Shouto realized, but instead of him running futilely towards his mysterious woman as always, he now felt like a phantom, trapped inside another man’s body as he unwillingly went along for the ride.

He glanced down, absently noting the hakama he wore around his legs and the simple zori beneath his feet. He felt his left hand clasp at something at his waist, and he didn’t need to look to realize that it was the hilt of a katana.

He kept walking, muttering at the darkness, and Shouto wondered once again as he realized that the voice coming from the body he was in, was _his._

As he kept walking, Shouto found himself relaxing into this strange body, and before he knew it, he felt _melded_ into this person, their thoughts flowing along the same lines. It was as if he was falling into step with him, literally and figuratively, and he mused that perhaps this person was, in fact, _him._

It took a few more minutes before he spied a small clearing, a relieved sigh escaping him as he listened to the silent sound of softly running waters. He quickly stepped into the clearing through a break in the thick foliage, a half smile on his lips as he beheld the small sanctuary.

However, as he emerged from the cover of leaves, taking in the scent of clean water, a soft, surprised gasp reached his ears. He spun quickly to find the source of the sound, right hand flying to the hilt of his sword.

A woman stood mere meters away, clad in a simple white kosode. She was clutching what appeared to be her outer kimono in her hands, bunching it up protectively against her chest. Her dark hair was loose, the thick strands flowing down her back, covering her face as she turned away from him to shield herself from his view. Her efforts were in vain, as the clearing was free of places to hide from, and he would have chuckled at her pointless attempts at hiding from him if he wasn’t so utterly mortified at her unexpected presence, as well.

He turned away, hands falling away from his sword. Shouto felt himself gulp as heat raced up his neck, gathering uncomfortably at his cheeks.

“Forgive me,” he began, voice soft so as not to scare the woman. “I was not expecting anyone to be here this late at night.”

He heard the woman take a deep breath, and with a gentle tone, she spoke:

“It is… alright,” she whispered, the sound of her quiet voice sending a strange warmth through his chest even as he struggled to contain his own embarrassment.

He swallowed painfully, his throat dried up as he forced his lips to form words in response. He turned around fully, intending to go back the way he came as he finally stuttered, “I shall leave now.”

“Don’t,” she called out quickly, and he sensed the uncertainty in her voice even as she valiantly went on. “This clearing is not _mine,_ I have no right to keep anyone from enjoying it.”

He heard the rustling of cloth, and he suspected that the woman was probably hurriedly putting her kimono on while he was still looking away from her.

“Just as I have no right to make you leave, simply by coming here,” he responded. “Please, return to what you were doing. I can still find this place at another time.”

“Nonsense,” she replied, and he noted that her voice was now louder, a little more forceful than when he had first stumbled upon her. “You came all this way. You deserve to have a turn.”

“I must respectfully decline – ”

“Please, stay,” she insisted. “I was not doing anything important here, anyway.”

“I am truly _very_ uncomfortable about making a lady leave such a sanctuary for my own benefit,” he argued.

“Well…” she began, and he sensed a silent war in her head as she slowly mulled over her options.

He was about to just give up and leave, whether it be against her wishes or not, when she spoke again.

“We can… share the clearing,” she said softly.

He was so stunned that he almost turned to look at her. He caught himself at the last second, disbelieving, heart pounding in his ears at the strangely intimate invitation.

“I am sorry,” she spoke again. “Was that… inappropriate?”

He shook his head, before he thought about the fact that she probably wasn’t looking at him, either. “Not if you don’t find it so, my Lady.”

She laughed, the sound as lovely as birds singing in the early hours of morning, so welcome and beautiful to his ears that he once again very nearly turned to look at her.

“ _My Lady,_ you say?” she mused, her voice full of mirth. “How formal of you, Samurai.”

He chuckled, softly shuffling his feet against the soft ground as he responded. “I am hardly formal, and neither am I a Samurai. I am just a wanderer with a sword, passing through.”

“As I am hardly a Lady,” she said, her voice holding a playful note. “I am but a simple Priestess.”

“It would be my honor to share this clearing with you, Priestess,” he said. Her cheer was infectious, and he brought a fist to his mouth, trying to conceal the grin that threatened to overwhelm his face.

“Then turn around and come closer to the water, Wanderer,” she replied.

He turned around, slowly raising his eyes from where they stared determinedly at his feet.

The woman was now fully dressed in her kimono, but her hair still fell down her back, thick black waves concealing her face while the darkness did well to hide her further from him. However, as he looked up, intending to meet her eyes, a stray beam of moonlight fell across her, lighting her up for a mere moment…

That moment was enough, since as his gaze fell upon her, the meager light had allowed him to see her red lips that were curved into the most beautiful smile that he had ever beheld.

8-8-8-8-8

Shouto gasped as his eyes were wrenched open, an almost violent pain searing across his chest as the visions from his dreams began to slowly clear away. He fought back the fogginess of sleep as he braced his arms behind him, pushing himself up from his bed and staggering to his feet.

He stumbled as he clumsily pushed his way out of his room, his mind desperately holding on to the last vestiges of his dream, recognizing the smiling red lips of the woman in the kimono. Somehow, he knew deep in his heart that this lady in the clearing was same woman as the one in his usual dreams, and he didn’t even dare wonder why this new apparition was in a different place, a different time.

He was terrified that if he let his mind wander, the dream would fade… and he refused to forget the way she had looked in that kimono, the way her voice sang into his ears, and the way her laugh had made his heart skip in a way that he had never felt before.

He reached out to open the door to his art studio, running to his desk. He pulled his sketchbook open as he fumbled for his pencils, and before he could even take another breath, he was already sketching madly onto the first blank page that he could find.

8-8-8-8-8

_To be continued…_


End file.
